2.1 Anon.: On Emotion and Life Before the Microphone

Translated by Emilie Morin. First published as ‘De l’émotion et de la vie devant le micro,’ Annuaire de la Radiodiffusion Nationale, année 1933 (Paris: Ministère des PTT; Service de la Radiodiffusion, 1933), 235–7.

The anonymous author of this piece worked for the French state-owned radio network, probably for the station Paris-PTT. The Annuaire de la Radiodiffusion Nationale was an official handbook which aimed to provide a yearly overview of achievements in French broadcasting. It only appeared twice, in 1933 and 1934. It was similar in scope and spirit to the handbooks published by national broadcasting systems elsewhere: the BBC published annual handbooks from 1928 onwards, the EIAR published an Annuario from 1929, albeit less regularly, and the Reichsrundfunkgesellschaft published a Rundfunk-Jahrbuch from 1929 to 1933.

[…] The microphone is a rather strange little instrument. Standing before its nickel ear, singing sweet nothings, screaming dramatic lines with vehemence, or whispering tender secrets: all this will always be intimidating when we think of the tens of thousands of ears – be they troubled or cheerful, critical or quietly ironic, appreciative or deceitful – that are listening to everything that is uttered by the singer's or the speaker's mouth.

In a public hall, the artist incarnates the emotions he feels, in front of people he can see, with their attentive faces stretched out before him, their eyes fixed on the expression of his face. When he holds the room, as we say, he feels it … And he can feel, instantly, the spectators’ reactions to his performance, lines or singing. Of course, if the reactions are favourable, they help him a great deal. The applause that greets his performance gives him faith in his qualities, in his worth. To him, applause is the most powerful form of encouragement, and it supports and enables his success.

With the microphone, none of this applies. For the innumerable listeners whose sensory perception is reduced to hearing alone, there is nothing to animate the performance. Before the little metallic disc, the artist feels alone: he sings, plays in front of a blind listener whose eyes remain stubbornly closed, a paralytic whose face and limbs remain immutably still … If singing is involved, then the pianist will be playing at a distance of five yards behind him, against all custom; he will have to make do without the reassuring closeness of his musician.